Ghost Raider: Tomb Recon
by Andrithir
Summary: A good soldier is not just a good killer, a good soldier also knows when to shake a hand and does whatever it takes to achieve victory. A soldier does not play fair. The only honour for a soldier, is to be efficient and respectful to the enemy. A survivor is no different, but a soldier - a Ghost, chooses to walk into hell and hope to comeback... and live to never tell about it.


**A/N: Merged timeline, a few things to note, Kozak and Croft are the same age. Set halfway-ish during the Tomb Raider game, and Pre-Future Soldier.**

**XXxxXX**

**PACIFIC OCEAN**

There was the rumbling hum of the aircraft's engines and the soft creaking of metal. John Dimitri Kozak had recently finished Ghost School, and was on his way to join his new team, Hunter. Looking out the window, he saw a number of thunder flashes ripple across the clouds below.

_Shit_, he thought to himself.

"_Hello everyone, this is your Captain speaking,"_ a male voice broadcasted. _"We're looking at some nasty weather conditions up ahead, so hold on tight."_

He felt the plane shift as it climbed to a safer height. The C-130 lurched again, knocking Kozak around within his harness. He felt the wind being knocked out of his lungs.

"Fuck, we've lost our engines!" the Pilot swore. "This storm is blowing us of course."

Looking out the windows, John saw the flaming engines and the inert props – or lack therof. He reached for his kitbag and quickly snatched up his helmet. Securing the harness, he braced himself in his seat.

"Damn, I'm losing control, hydraulics are shot up."

Kozak felt his stomach rise as the plane dipped, then his whole world spun and roared out of control. Hulls exploded, seats were ripped out of their ports, and water slapped across his face.

"Brace!"

The world slowed to a horrific crawl as Kozak watched the plane being torn apart. The door separating the main cabin and the cockpit were torn off its hinges. Metal screeched, and sparks flew, stinging his cheeks. The wings were ripped off and the hull was smashed open.

He felt the bolts securing his seat loosen, and the next thing he knew, he was sailing through the air. End of end, he spun. Then, everything stopped. He drew in a deep breath, and blinked. Unlatching his harness, he pulled himself up and stepped out into the burning ravine. The C-130's mangled wreck was strewn over the artificially carved earth.

Doubling back into whatever was left of the main section, he knew he had to search for survivors. But he couldn't just call out for the crew though. Only a missile could tear a cargo plane like that from the sky, not some freak storm.

Chances are; there were already hostiles closing in on his position. Running his hands across his battle dress uniform, he checked for any nasty wounds covered up by the adrenaline rush, but thankfully there was nothing wrong he could feel.

Checking his OPSAT on his wrist, he could only give a short grim laugh. He was stranded on Yamatai in the Dragon's Triangle. Declassified WWII military records had shown that the Axis powers were extremely interested in Yamatai for whatever reason.

Quickly dashing to the burning wreck, he rolled down his sleeves; the last thing he needed was to have his forearms singed off. Thankful that his fatigues had sewn in protective ceramic pads, Kozak used them to bash his way through the burning wreckages. He saw a few mangled and burn bodies amongst the debris, in his gut, he knew no one but him had survived.

Policing the tags, he made his way back across the carved ravine and searched through the supply crates. He found his kitbag, or whatever was left of it. Tossing it aside, he went back to searching the crates. There were plenty of MREs a few candy bars, juice packs and camel pouches. Eventually he found a crate filled with body armour and weapons. It was heavily damaged, but he managed to salvage a HK417A2 SOPMOD Battle Rifle and a FN57 Sidearm. They were reliable weapons with an excellent operational track record.

Moving on, he found a set of working body armour and support webbing. He had everything he needed for a recon op, but not what he wanted if he was going to defend an area. Protocols state that if an aircraft was shot down, then personnel were to activate emergency beacons and do whatever it takes to survive.

But considering that someone possess the capabilities to shoot down a C-130 flying above the clouds, it would be safe to assume they would have the means to locate and isolate a beacon. He knew the cockpit was gone when the bird first kissed the ground, but there was a few more throughout the plane.

Scouring one pile of wrecks to the other, he spotted a survival pack lodged under a hull section. Lying flat on his stomach, he crawled under the wreckage and reached for the bag. Opening the contents, he found a full-spectrum radio and an emergency transponder.

Turning the object, he interfaced it with his AR and OPSAT systems. Editing the sound file, he recorded a message.

"This is Kozak, United States Special Forces. We've been shot down, requesting immediate assistance, be advised, hostiles active in this region. Will maintain evasive tactics until friendlies are confirmed. Out."

He turned to the trees, and hurled the transponder deep into the forest. Backtracking to what he could salvage, he took quick inventory before putting them in a long-range patrol bag, and moving out under the cover of darkness.

An emergency transponder could be detected by anyone, but an encrypted satellite uplink was a different story. Fortunately, that was still operational.

"_Kozak, this is Overlord. Code in; Delta-Five,"_ a middle-aged male voice Commanded.

Delta-Five, that meant Command was still Operational and systems were green. He gave them the non-duress response.

"Whiskey-Four. This is Kozak."

"_Kozak, I need a sitrep."_

"Bird was hit, no survivors. I'm good for now. Waiting on evac."

"_Copy that, Kozak. Keep your uplink signal clear, hang tight and we'll see you in a few."_

"Copy that."

First step was to climb to higher ground; he moved along a mountain path and spiralled up to the summit while scanning the area. Cloud cover was obscuring satellite visuals, which meant no map data. At least he had his four-focal night vision goggles.

"_Kozak, be advised, we've had a number of civilian vessels lost in your area. The ship _Endurance_ and two flights of rescue birds_ _have crashed on Yamatai over the past few days_."

"Copy."

_Damn Dragon's Triangle…_

"_Find any survivors you can, but keep your main objective is to evade the enemy."_

"Yes sir, Kozak out."

The winds began to blow again, and with it came the sound of indistinct voices. Straining his ears, he could make out a few words, most having to do with looking for survivors and salvaging the plane. But there was something about _"the island strikes again."_

"Crazy bastards," John muttered.

Securing a silencer onto his rifle and the ghost mask on his face, he doubled back to the crash site and took up defensive positions behind the rock line overlooking the downed aircraft. He set the Grip Pod atop a boulder and aimed down his sites.

A group of seven men advanced onto the remains of the C-130, a few were armed with WWII Era weapons such as Japanese submachine guns, US Mossberg Shotguns and some salvaged AKs. Others wielded menacing machetes and makeshift axes made from sticks and bayonet blades. One man carried dynamite and the two following him had modified bow and arrows, made to launch flaming projectiles.

There was still cloud cover, and light was at an absolute minimal. The search party had torches and a few flashlights, their clothes were worn but not completely torn. Clearly they had been on the island for a while. Command had also mentioned numerous ships being lost in the region, and these men were clearly the survivors.

"Overlord, are you getting this?" Kozak whispered into his throat mike.

His equipment carried a higher-end version of the Land Warrior system. With a satellite uplink, the cameras provided a high-definition panoramic view of what the Operative saw, to Command.

"_Copy Kozak, we've got your feed."_

Resting his finger on the trigger guard, John kept his sights trained on the men who were armed with ranged weapons. He flicked the safeties off, and kept his breathing stable.

"It's an American plane," a man said. He had an accent from someone on the east coast. Not a Brooklyn accent, but someone from Chicago. "US Air Force, maybe we can get some better guns from it."

"And food," another added. "Maybe a can of spam, or beef jerky."

They were desperate to have a taste of what it would be like back home that much was certain. John wondered if they were part of the same group that shot him down, or guerrilla fighters. If they were, maybe there would be a Tier 1 Operator with them. But doubtful, if there was, Command would've told him to link up with the resistance.

"That storm came out of nowhere and took this plane down," another man said. Like the rest of them, they were wearing clothing that sailors would usually wear on long voyagers, protective overalls and heavy duty boots.

"Father Mathias said that anyone who came to Yamatai would be delivered to us by the Sun Queen."

_That doesn't sound good._

Cultists, Ghost School had talked extensively about fundamentalists groups. Unlike groups that wanted to make money i.e. criminals, fundamentalists and ideologists couldn't be reasoned with. They couldn't be bought off or intimidated; they were fully devoted towards their goal of fulfilling their beliefs.

To have a modern day cultist group so savage however, was a different story entirely. It would be reasonable to assume that these men would throw themselves with fanatical fervour at their enemy. The dried blood splatter patterns and cuts on their clothes were a clear indication of that. There was a sick and twisted irony to it – racist, maybe. These islands were well within the sphere of Japanese influence during WWII at the height of their empire. When Allied forces attacked the Japanese Pacific strongholds, the Imperial soldiers would throw themselves into merciless machine gun fire with the fanatical devotion.

It was a theory that these men would do the same or similar. But Kozak wasn't too keen on testing it out prematurely.

"_Kozak, be advised it would be best to scuttle the weapons."_

"On it."

Hovering his finger over the trigger, and easing onto his elbow pads, he followed the group as they prepared to move out and do their search. The first rule of engagement was to eliminate the voice, then the brain. Eliminate the voice, they can't call for help. Remove the brain, and everything falls.

Demo-man appeared to be carrying flares; the leader of the group was carrying both a flare gun and radio. Waiting patiently, Kozak watched the salvage group disperse among the wreckage.

"Brother, the crates have been opened. Someone survived."

"Or maybe the crash bounced it," another said, unconcerned.

_Shit_.

Drawing in a deep breath, he zeroed in on the leader.

"Come on, come on," John whispered.

With an opening presenting itself, he squeezed the trigger and felt the stock push into his shoulder. The wispy grey air dispersed from the silencer, followed by a soft hiss. The leader fell with a neat hole bored into his chest. Shifting onto his next target, Kozak sent a round through Demo-man's helmet. The man crumpled into a heap like a ragdoll, dead before he had even hit the dirt.

"Hey, are you still there brother?"

A cultist called. None had seen their two comrades go down. Acting fast, the Operator plugged the concerned man, and followed on through with spilling more blood and brain matter onto the dirt. Finally, everything was quiet again; only the sound of howling wolves, soft winds and the crackle of fire was all that was left.

Checking that everything was clear, John made his way back to the crash site and searched through the bodies for anything useful. There were a few makeshift bows that might be useful – but he had a battle rilfe. Then there were a few climbing axes and a radio.

He placed the axes on his support webbing, while keying in the radio's frequency into his own systems. Listening in on the enemy would be a superb advantage. It would even allow him to play a few mind games on his prey – just like the school had taught him.

Grabbing a torch from one of the dead, Kozak set the food and weapons alight. The last thing he needed was to have the cultist armed with advanced military hardware. Anything he could carry or needed for the duration of a month, he had on him and anything he might need in the near future, he had hidden under an overhang on the cliffside. The plane was carrying fresh food stuff anyway, so a vast array of high-tech missiles weren't on the manifest, and the food would be ruined in a few days regardless.

"_Jack, are you there?"_ the radio chirped.

_You must be the concerned controller_, Kozak thought dryly.

"_Damn it. Look if you can hear me, the Outsiders on the ship are tearing up our towns to the north. That's where the Oni are. Father Mathias has told us to stand our ground."_

Father Mathias, he was the leader, the way how the said his name sounded like they both loved and feared him. Something just felt wrong about this island.

"_That doesn't sound good, Kozak. Be careful out there."_

"Will do."

He had enough battery life to last a few days before needing to recharge, and that wouldn't be an issue so long as the hand cranked induction motor remained functional.

_Stay calm, and everything will be fine_.

Taking in another deep breath, Kozak steeled himself and moved to the north. He wondered if he could strike up ad deal with the Cultists. Probably not considering he just offed one of their search parties and judging from the radio chatter, they weren't too friendly either.

**XXxxXX**

**NORTHERN YAMATAI**

"_Mayday, mayday. This is United States Air Force Flight Two-Seven-Eight-Niner, we've suffered catastrophic engine failure. We've been blown of course, and are over the Dragon's Triangle. Possible enemy AA, but we've got nothing on radar. I repeat, we're going down over the Dragon's Triangle, possible hostie AA operating in the area."_

Despair griped her heart. Lara knew that she had to keep pushing on, but hearing another aircraft being down over the island was just… brutal. It was a US Military Plane. Sooner or later a Carrier Strike Group would go searching for it, and when it arrived, the storms would strike again, potentially killing hundreds. And what of the women serving on board those ships? Only men survived here, while the women were sacrificed on the pyres. Would those men give up their comrades? Or would they stand firm against such madness?

No, she couldn't think about that, not now. She had to know if there were survivors. Finding a spot to hunker down, she kept her ear out and listened to the radio.

"_This is Kozak, United States Special Forces. We've been shot down, requesting immediate assistance, be advised, hostiles active in this region. Will maintain evasive tactics until friendlies are confirmed. Out."_

Was Kozak the name of a team, or a person? If it was the name of a team, then it would be odd for a US unit to use a Russian name. The accent was from Brooklyn. He sounded fine and well, calm but maybe a bit nervous.

She hoped that there were more survivors. He didn't say anything about more survivors, but maybe there were. Maybe it was a disinformation tactic. Roth had told her about the things he did while he served with the Royal Marine Commandos. Disinformation was a very effective tactic of warding enemies off the trail of a smaller force.

Tucking the radio back onto her belt, she settled down by the campsite for the night. As much as she wanted to go get Sam, she knew the dangers of fatigue. Her body needed rest, and so too did her mind. She just hoped that whoever survived the crash would not have the same fate of the rescue pilots befall on them.

**XXxxXX**

**A/N: So I just finished playing Tomb Raider, and thought I'd write this "little" story. It's tough trying to remember the linear plot of Tomb Raider, because so much happens, but I'll do my best to deliver a strong narrative.**

**Anyway, please leave a review and tell me what you think.**


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